agility and toy with the hordes of bedbugs swarming over the straw mat. The body acquires this extraordinary ability when it rids itself of its false human consciousness and achieves true awareness.
The prison guard was surprised when he peered through the door. Bahiah was holding out her arm and running her hand over her swollen veins. When she felt the blood coursing through her body she laughed: for thousands of years people had tried to unravel the mysteries of blood circulation. She looked at the policeman with her black eyes. She now understood that the world revolved in time with the circulation of blood in her body; it was this circulation itself that frightened policemen and paralysed their thinking, especially if the circulation was so powerful that the surface became smooth and still like the surface of the earth — though it was blood-red and flowed slow and proud through the blue veins under the skin.
The policeman asked in a sharp, effeminate voice: ‘Are you Bahiah Shaheen?’
Still laughing, she looked up with her usual arrogance and replied ‘No!’
The policeman stared at her with bulging eyes, ‘Are you lying?’
She laughed, snapping her fingers. He slapped her face. Thin red streaks ran from her mouth and nose, but her black eyes were still upturned and her nose kept its sharp upward tilt, dividing the world in two. When she walked alongside the policeman, her legs seemed long in their black trousers. Her muscles were taut, her bones straight; with each stride she hit the ground distinctly, separating her legs confidently. When she reached the large room crowded with people, she assumed her usual stance: her weight on her right foot, she lifted her left foot high and propped it on the wooden barrier that separated her from an officer seated behind a small desk.
The officer opened a large book the size of his desk top and his voice rang out: ‘Bahiah Shaheen!’
She realized he was calling someone else, so she did not reply. But he called out once more, still louder: ‘Bahiah Shaheen!’
She looked around, searching among the faces for someone called Bahiah Shaheen. She could not recognize her face among the women standing or sitting on the floor. A long, feminine laugh rang out, followed by giggling and the popping of chewing gum; kisses were blown, and the smell of sweat and dirt mixed with an overpowering odour like iodine; some faces were fat and chubby and others were just skin and bone. On some faces the black eye-shadow had melted in the heat and formed a smudgy black ring around the eyes. A plump, flabby body revealed its curves under a tight silk dress that clung to the lines of breast and bottom. There was also a skinny body like a dried corn-stalk, with no breasts or bottom. Small feminine feet with long, red nails and cracked heels darkened with mud poked out from open slippers.
One of the skinny ones said, ‘Where’s Bahiah Shaheen?’
A fat one answered, ‘I’m Bahiah al-Sharbatali.’
‘Welcome!’
‘Thank you.’
‘When will God have mercy on us?’
‘God is pleased with us all right.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure, we’re the best of women.’
‘I feel better now.’
‘Without us honourable husbands would have died and respectable households might have collapsed.’
‘But they hate our smell . . . ’
‘Because it’s their real smell.’
‘And they put us in prison.’
‘Because we know what their genitals look like.’
‘They’re scared to death of us.’
‘And they die of desire for us.’
The long, drawn-out laughs, the clacking of slippers and the popping of chewing gum went on. The smell of perfumed filth filled the air. The officer thumped his hand on the colourless desk which looked like a kitchen work-table and shouted angrily, ‘Shut up, gypsies! Where are your manners?’
One of the women giggled: ‘What manners, sergeant! The people with manners are all dead.’
He winked at her, ‘You got that right.’
Then he glanced at her
The prison guard was surprised when he peered through the door. Bahiah was holding out her arm and running her hand over her swollen veins. When she felt the blood coursing through her body she laughed: for thousands of years people had tried to unravel the mysteries of blood circulation. She looked at the policeman with her black eyes. She now understood that the world revolved in time with the circulation of blood in her body; it was this circulation itself that frightened policemen and paralysed their thinking, especially if the circulation was so powerful that the surface became smooth and still like the surface of the earth — though it was blood-red and flowed slow and proud through the blue veins under the skin.
The policeman asked in a sharp, effeminate voice: ‘Are you Bahiah Shaheen?’
Still laughing, she looked up with her usual arrogance and replied ‘No!’
The policeman stared at her with bulging eyes, ‘Are you lying?’
She laughed, snapping her fingers. He slapped her face. Thin red streaks ran from her mouth and nose, but her black eyes were still upturned and her nose kept its sharp upward tilt, dividing the world in two. When she walked alongside the policeman, her legs seemed long in their black trousers. Her muscles were taut, her bones straight; with each stride she hit the ground distinctly, separating her legs confidently. When she reached the large room crowded with people, she assumed her usual stance: her weight on her right foot, she lifted her left foot high and propped it on the wooden barrier that separated her from an officer seated behind a small desk.
The officer opened a large book the size of his desk top and his voice rang out: ‘Bahiah Shaheen!’
She realized he was calling someone else, so she did not reply. But he called out once more, still louder: ‘Bahiah Shaheen!’
She looked around, searching among the faces for someone called Bahiah Shaheen. She could not recognize her face among the women standing or sitting on the floor. A long, feminine laugh rang out, followed by giggling and the popping of chewing gum; kisses were blown, and the smell of sweat and dirt mixed with an overpowering odour like iodine; some faces were fat and chubby and others were just skin and bone. On some faces the black eye-shadow had melted in the heat and formed a smudgy black ring around the eyes. A plump, flabby body revealed its curves under a tight silk dress that clung to the lines of breast and bottom. There was also a skinny body like a dried corn-stalk, with no breasts or bottom. Small feminine feet with long, red nails and cracked heels darkened with mud poked out from open slippers.
One of the skinny ones said, ‘Where’s Bahiah Shaheen?’
A fat one answered, ‘I’m Bahiah al-Sharbatali.’
‘Welcome!’
‘Thank you.’
‘When will God have mercy on us?’
‘God is pleased with us all right.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure, we’re the best of women.’
‘I feel better now.’
‘Without us honourable husbands would have died and respectable households might have collapsed.’
‘But they hate our smell . . . ’
‘Because it’s their real smell.’
‘And they put us in prison.’
‘Because we know what their genitals look like.’
‘They’re scared to death of us.’
‘And they die of desire for us.’
The long, drawn-out laughs, the clacking of slippers and the popping of chewing gum went on. The smell of perfumed filth filled the air. The officer thumped his hand on the colourless desk which looked like a kitchen work-table and shouted angrily, ‘Shut up, gypsies! Where are your manners?’
One of the women giggled: ‘What manners, sergeant! The people with manners are all dead.’
He winked at her, ‘You got that right.’
Then he glanced at her
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